bearded rabbi, in a rocking chair.
“Oy vey, you must be the Minister, already,”
He smiled, affably.
The minister stared at Him, then turned to
Everard.
“You’re really sure This Fellow is who He
says He is?”
“There seems little doubt,” Everard replied.
“So,” The Minister inhaled, turning into the
room, “You must be…”
“God,” said God.
“Ah. Hmm. I see. Well, er, is everything here
to your satisfaction?”
“Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. Omnipotence
has its privileges.”
“Yes, yes, indeed. And you chose to accompany
the sixth temporal expedition…”
“‘Chose’ isn’t the right word. Concepts of
free will and predestination don’t apply to
me. My life, what a state things’d be in if they
did. But I came with them. I’m here. That’s
how it needs to be.”
“Aha. Yes…”
The Minister really was stumped for words.
“Of course,” God continued, “I’ll be moving
out sometime soon. ‘Soon’ in my terms, that
is. Probably early next century. Been thinking
of getting myself a nice little bungalow
in Golders Green. Let it slip out little by little
that I’ve actually relocated the Promised Land
there.”
“Golders Green?” The Minister was surprised,
but rather less surprised than he
might have been.
“Yes. Serve me right for trusting that bone
idle git Metatron to make the announcement.
Should have been posted on the firmament in
flaming gold letters back in 1923. That’d have
solved all this Arab-Israeli nonsense. By the
time he’d got round to it, it was last February.
And look at the mess things are in. None of my
doing, believe me. But now, I’ve got to take
things at a dead slow pace or there’ll be Hell
to pay.”
The Minister blinked, attempting to take all
this in and failing.
“You mean, the Arab-Israeli conflict is all
due to...”
“An administrative cock-up. I’m afraid so.
It’s what happens when you give your creations
free will. All the time! Still, beats the
alternative…”
“A universe of automata?”
“Exactly.”
“But… but, hang on, you appear, in one
sense, to have created the whole of existence.”
“Yes.”
“But only in one of our possible pasts…”
“True.”
“So, do you exist, or not?”
“‘Exist’ is not the right word. The results of
this experiment are meant to teach you that.”
The Minister began to see where this might
be going.
“Tell you what, though,” God added, “If
you really want to see something surprising,
go have a look at what’s going on two doors
down.”
‘‘He was
interviewed this
morning by a
team of the top
rabbis-’’
“Pardon?”
“They’ve called the Old Bill in!” God chuckled
in delight.
The Minister looked at his two companions,
suspiciously.
“We thought it best,” Perkins admitted,
rather shamefacedly. “The scaley bugger
slithered on board the machine when no one
was looking…”
At that moment, a sideburned man came
barrelling down the corridor, clutching a
steaming plastic cup of coffee. He stopped
outside one of the doors further down and
rapped on it, heavily.
“Let us in, Terry, for God’s sake,” he
snarled.
“Carry on using My Name in vain, Ron
Sharpley” God called out, “And I shall cause a
grave misfortune to fall upon thee.”
“Sorry,” Sharpley replied, in a voice not
quite as sheepish as the coat he was wearing,
but close.
The door in front of Sharpley opened and
he slouched inside. The Minister followed
him discretely. Within, another man, leather
jacketed and smoking, was conducting an interview.
“Listen, you skinny bleeder, the question’s
quite simple: are you, or have you ever been
known as, Satan, Lucifer, Morningstar, Set,
Choronzon, Beeelzebub or Asmodeus?”
“Dunno ‘em. Never ‘eard of ‘em. You can’t
keep me ‘ere. I ain’t done nothin’. I wanna see
my solicitor,” said the snake.
“You’ll see your bleeding solicitor when Sergeant
Dixon and I think you ought to see your
bleeding solicitor,” Sharpley exploded. “Stop
poncing about. “Cause right now it’s looking
like you’ve done just about everything.”
“Only,” the snake whined, “if you adopt
a crudely literalist reading of the Old Testament.
There are plenty of rabbis who’ll back
me up on this one…”
“Don’t try the clever bollocks on me, my
son. Save that for Malcolm Muggeridge.”
The Minister turned from the scene, bewildered.
“Inspector Sharpley and Sergeant Dixon
seem to be rather out of their depth on this
one,” Perkins whispered.
“Well, I don’t know how on earth I’m going
to explain all this to the PM,” the Minister
sighed, “Seems like we’re in a dreadful fix.
As I see it, the problem’s going to be keeping
it from the Yanks. The Russkies won’t be
too bothered; they’ve always liked to pretend
they don’t believe he exists…”
“‘Exists’ is completely the wrong word,”
God called out from down the corridor, “Oy
vey, how many more times?”
“Well, er, Our Father,” the Minister ventured,
“What I propose is this: we have that
little bungalow in Golders Green ready for
you…”
“Lovely! That’s really nice of you!”
“So you can toddle up there… Er — um —
that is to say… ‘toddle’ in a suitably omnipotent
sort of way…”
“I understand, My Son.”
“…Er, any time it takes your fancy.”
This is how it happened, thirty years and
more ago, though there be mockers and naysayers
who will have none of it. Let them
perish in eternal fire, as is the just fate of all
snide, poncey clever dicks, with whom THE
LORD ever doth wax most wrath (and those
with whom THE LORD doth wax wrath He zappeth)!
Therefore, let it be known unto all sinners,
THE LORD moveth unto a nice little bungalow
in Golders Green, next Tuesday.
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